The Conductor
by blue-eyed-cow
Summary: 'It took Stan a moment to realize he was the only one left. Ernie glanced over his shoulder at him from the driver's seat. "So, lad, where to?" "Dunno." "Whaddya mean you 'dunno?" "Dunno. Don' got no place to go."' The story of how Stan met Ernie.


**A/N: Hello and welcome to 'The Conductor'! This is my first Harry Potter story that has nothing to do with the Weasley's. It's a bit of a change for me, but I've wanted to write a Stan Shunpike story for a long time now, and I think it actually turned out fairly decent. Hooray!**

** This is basically the story of when Stan met Ernie. Tried to make everything as accurate as possible, and really hoping I did an 'ok' job of it…**

** It's rated for mention of child abuse and, like, one swear or something. So, basically, just rated to be safe. Nothing to worry about.**

** I tried so very hard to not overdo it with Stan's accent. I'm sorry if you can't understand some of what he's saying. I tried, I really did!**

** I hope you all enjoy it!**

** Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Harry Potter. Surprise, surprise.**

Stan didn't know where he was going. And, for that matter, he really didn't care. All he knew was that he wanted to get as far away from that horrid house as possible. That horrid house with that horrid man. All those horrid smells and sounds and words… he wanted none of it anymore. He was done.

He could already feel his left cheek beginning to swell up, forcing his eye to be narrowed. It stung, but that wasn't important right now. What was important was that he got as far away from here as he possible could. He didn't care if he was leaving all his things behind, that he didn't have a knut on him, that the only thing he now had was his wand and the clothes on his back, that he didn't even have a place to go. All he wanted right now was to leave.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shabby bomber's jacket, bowed his head, and picked up his pace slightly, heart beating faster than he would have liked it to. Stan knew his dad wouldn't give a damn if he left, but would he care if he never returned? Stan doubted it. The only thing his dad seemed to care about was getting Stan back to Hogwarts, which was never going to happen. Stan sometimes wondered if the only reason he wanted him at Hogwarts so bad was to get rid of him for most of the year.

'Then he won't care if I just leave, would he?' Stan thought ruefully, picking up his pace yet again.

He was so caught up in his own miserable thoughts that he wasn't even watching where he was going. So it was no surprise that he crashed face-first into a lamppost. Stan fell back, cursed loudly, and rubbed his already bruised face. If the blow he had received to his face earlier wasn't going to leave a mark, this new one definitely would.

Stan stood there for a moment more, staring into the darkness of the night, not quite knowing what to do. What _could_ he do? Nothing. It was like his dad had said: he was good for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Worthless.

Then the teenager felt anger boiling up inside of him, wanting out. Why _should_ he be worthless? Why should a ruddy bloke like _him_ say things like that? What gave him the rights?

Stan let out a frustrated cry, snatched his wand from his back pocket, and threw it as hard as he could down the cracked sidewalk. It landed with a soft clatter.

That's when a deafening BANG erupted through the air like a gunshot. Caught off guard, Stan stumbled back, nearly falling. Seemingly out of nowhere, a giant, purple, triple-decker bus screeched to a halt in the street in front of Stan, although he hadn't even noticed any vehicle coming down the road beforehand. Gold lettering over the windshield read, '_The Knight Bus'._

Stan didn't even have time to question any of this before the doors of this strange bus slid open, and out limped an old man with an owl-like face and very thick glasses. He looked at young Stan with eyes that seemed too big for his face, studying Stan's surprised expression, his tattered clothing, and the wand laying a few feet away from him. Then the man cleared his throat and spoke.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out you wand hand, step on-" He paused, coughing loudly into the crook of his arm, then continued, "board, and I can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Ernie Prang, and I will be your conductor and driver this evening."

Stan blinked a few times at the elderly wizard, still not fully processing what was happening. Then, finally catching up to what this man, Ernie, had told him, he said in his thick cockney accent, "'Choo sayin' this bus can go an' take me anywhere I want? 'S'wot you're sayin'?"

"That's right. For eleven sickles, you and all your things can be taken to the destination of your choice."

Stan tried to keep the look of disappointment off his face. He knew it was too good to be true. He knew he didn't have eleven sickles. "Wot if I don' have anyfink? Anyfink to bring? Still 'ave to pay then?"

Ernie cocked his head to one side. "You don't have any trunks? Or bags?"

"Nuffink but my wand."

"Well, I'm still charging you eleven," Erie said, his face now slightly unsure. "Now are you getting on or-" he coughed again, "what?"

Stan considered his possibilities. He was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he figured this old man wouldn't be too hard to fool. And he certainly wasn't going to put down the chance to leave this place. So he picked up his wand, dusted himself up, and in his strongest voice said, "Pay yeh fifteen sickles if I pay when I ge' off."

But Ernie was already turned away from Stan, limping up the stairs. "Sorry, lad, I only accept payments in advance."

"Give yeh sommat nice fo' it! Sommat real nice!"

Ernie stopped in his tracks. Then he slowly turned back to Stan, who didn't even know what he was saying at that point. "Like what?"

Stan kept talking, praying this would work. "Can' be tellin' you yet, can I? Gotta wait 'till I get to where I needa go."

Ernie narrowed his huge, magnified eyes at him, as if he could see right through him. Stan gulped. He was really hoping Ernie wouldn't want to see the money before he got on the bus…

"Alright, lad, c'mon. But this little 'something' of yours better be good," Ernie stepped aside, leaving Stan free to walk up the stairs of the bus. The fourteen year-old couldn't believe his luck as he climbed onto the brightly colored vehicle.

It was unlike any other bus he had ever seen, magic or Muggle. Instead of seats, there were rows of beds, with brackets standing next to them, all holding candles to illuminate the wooden interior. A spiraling wooden staircase wound it's way up through the ceiling of the first floor, most likely leading to another floor filled with beds. In the front of the bus there were two armchairs; one for the driver, Stan assumed, since the wheel was stationed in front of it. The other was unoccupied. There were other people here, too. A young witch was sitting up in a bed near the back, looking sick to her stomach. Stan could hear two men talking upstairs. There was a balding man pacing up and down the aisle, looking troubled.

Stan was still standing in the doorway, stunned, when Ernie limped up the stairs behind him. "First time, then?"

Stan nodded.

"Well, this'll be yours," Ernie told him, beckoning to the bed closest to the driver's seat. "I suggest you hold onto something."

"'Old onna somefink? Wos tha' supposed to mean?"

A wicked smile suddenly spread across Ernie's wrinkled face. "Oh, you'll see."

Then he sank into the driver's seat, and Stan, not quite sure of what to do, grabbed onto the bed frame. He glanced out the window. 'Goodbye, Clapham. I won't be coming back,' he thought bitterly, and then the bus roared to life.

Sprang to life was more like it. There was another BANG, then Stan was nearly thrown off his feet for the second time that night as the bus wheeled forward, impossible fast. The man who was pacing stumbled into a bed just in time, and was now holding on for dear life. The woman in the back had a brown paper bag in hand, incase it was needed. Stan wondered if Ernie was actually blind. His driving was terrible. The bus was zooming past buildings and down streets, swiveling left and right, appearing as though it would ram into anything in its path. But it didn't. Whenever the bus came too close to an object or building, the thing would merely jump out of the way. Stan, finally getting used to the feeling of going hundreds of miles an hour, glanced out of the window. They were already on a street he didn't recognize. He began to let out a sigh of relief, but his breath was hitched in his throat and came out more like a gasp as the bus suddenly lurched forward, coming to an abrupt halt, sending Stan flying forward onto the hard wooden floor. For the third time that evening, Stan's face stung.

The driver heaved himself out of the driver's seat, turned, and nearly stepped on Stan. He looked down at the boy, raising an eyebrow. "Thought I told you to hold on?"

"Thought you'd be a bet'er driver," Stan grumbled back, standing back up and sitting on the edge of the feather bed.

The two men from the second floor descended the stairs, grunting with the combined effort of lifting the heavy trunk the two of them were carrying. Ernie looked as though he wanted to help them carry the trunk, but Stan doubted he'd be able to carry it down the stairs, let alone lift it. Which just proved Stan's past thought that a driver and a conductor were two different things. Ernie couldn't be both.

When the men stumbled off the bus, looking relieved to leave, the bus gave a shuttering BANG, and the engine jumped to life, making the bus rush forward once again. Stan held on tighter this time, not wanting to damage his pimpled face any more that it already was.

Either Ernie didn't like talking more than necessary, or he was really trying to concentrate on his driving. Stan thought it must be the first option, since Ernie's driving didn't improve as the night wore on. The old man was silent for the most part, swiveling the triple-decker bus down streets of all kinds: narrow ones, dark ones, busy ones, shady ones. Stan didn't recognize any of them. And every time the bus came to a halt, Stan would nearly be thrown onto the floor, and another witch or wizard would clamber out of the death trap, looking relieved, but never forgetting to say 'thank you' to Ernie.

According to Stan's watch, it was around eleven o'clock when Ernie actually began the attempt of making small talk with his passengers. Well, what was left of them, anyways. There were only a few people left, and most of them were looking too nauseous to speak. Add that to the fact that Stan was closest to the drivers seat, and it was no wonder why talking to Stan seemed like the only option, despite the fact that Stan was clearly not Ernie's first choice of company.

So, just as any other normal person would start a conversation, the first thing Ernie said to Stan was, "So, what's wrong with your face?"

Stan scowled at the question, automatically getting defensive. It was a bad habit of his that was partly responsible for the reason he hated school so much. "'Oo wants to know?"

"Who do you think?" Ernie retorted in an equally defensive voice, taking his eyes off the road to glare at Stan for longer than the boy would have liked. Stan raised a set of greasy eyebrows, surprised that the breakable-looking man was capable of sounding just as sour as Stan did.

Then he subconsciously rubbed his bruised face, wincing as he did so. He didn't know why he opened up to this weird man so quickly, but then he found himself saying, "Go' 'it."

In the rearview mirror, Stan could see Ernie raise an eyebrow. "Got hit?"

The boy's eyes were glued to the floor. He felt his mangled face turned red.

Ernie didn't press. Instead, he asked different questions. "How old are you anyways?" He coughed loudly, then waited for an answer.

"Firteen. Fifteen in a week or so."

"Back to Hogwarts soon, then?"

Stan didn't answer for a few seconds. Finally, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, he said, "Yep."

If the driver heard something off in Stan's voice, he didn't mention anything. Instead, he was silent for about a half hour more, finishing off his stops and letting the few remaining passengers off at various places.

It took Stan a moment to realize he was the only one left. Ernie glanced over his shoulder at him from the driver's seat. "So, lad, where to?"

Stan stopped short, mentally smacking himself. He should have thought his plan through long before this. So, with no other option, he started talking without thinking anything through. If it worked before, it may work again.

"Dunno," he finally replied, shrugging casually.

Ernie glanced at him in the rearview mirror, scowling. "Whaddya mean you 'dunno'?"

"Dunno. Don' got no place to go."

Ernie, now maneuvering the bus down a narrow alleyway somewhere in southern London, hardened his glare. "Why the hell would you get on a bus without a final destination, eh?"

Stan thought for a second, trying to look as relaxed as he could muster. Then he shrugged.

Now it looked as though the old man was trying very hard to keep a leveled head. "Well, have you gone school shopping yet?"

"No."

"Then how about I drop you at the Leaky Cauldron, you can stay the night there, then meet up with family tomorrow to get your shopping done? How's that," he coughed, "sound?"

Stan fought the irresistible urge to laugh. Instead, he settled for a simple smirk, as he did his best to lie back onto the bed, arms folded behind his head, without toppling over. "I don' needta go school shoppin'. An' even if I did, no family o' mine would come an' 'meet up wiv me." Stan chuckled at the mere thought.

"Why not? For the shopping, I mean."

"'Cos I'int goin' back to 'Ogwarts, 'course!" Stan laughed now, feeling a lot more relaxed than he had in a while, despite the fact that he was stuck on a bus with a loony old man who expected Stan to pay him in sickles and trinkets when the night was over.

Before Stan knew what was happening, the bus halted so quickly that he, once again, flew through the air and landed in a crumpled heap behind where Ernie sat. The driver had stepped on the breaks right in the middle of a busy street, and now Muggle cars were being thrown out of the way of the bus by some invisible force. Whether the drivers of these cars knew what was happening or not was unknown. Ernie now stood towering over the fallen teenager, looking frustrated. Stan couldn't see why.

"Whaddya mean you _aren't going back to Hogwarts?" _Ernie practically roared, his face reddening with anger.

Stan was more surprised than intimidated, in all honesty. "Mean just tha', I reckon. I'int goin' back. Pret'y simple, really."

Ernie's wrinkled face grew even redder. "So you're just gonna… _drop out?_ Just like that?"

"Jus' like tha'."

There was a heavy silence that hung in the air, and an unseen tension now pulled at the space between Ernie Prang and Stan Shunpike.

"Get out. If you don't have any place you need to be, get out of here. I don't care what you do. Just give me the money you owe me and get off the bus," Ernie said, voice low and strangely venomous for a man of his age.

Stan put his hands up defensively, in a sort of 'Whoa, Nellie' position. "I can' ride around for a bit longer?"

"No. And even if you could, you wouldn't last. No one's lasted more than an hour and a half on the Knight Bus without barfing up their innards."

Stan saw his opportunity. "Bet I could beat tha'!"

Ernie pursed his lips. "Could yah, now?"

"Yep."

There was another silence. Stan crossed his thin, gangly arms over his chest, mentally daring the old man to protest. Ernie himself looked as though he was about to object to this proposition, but then his magnified eyes drifted to Stan's swollen cheek, then to his tattered jacket, and then back to his face again. Finally, he caved. "All right, lad. Let's say you've been here for an hour. If you can last another half hour, then I'll let you off wherever you wish, and I'll cut your pay down to the standard eleven sickles. If your stomach gives up, then I'm kicking you out wherever you are and I expect full pay. Deal?"

Stan beamed. "Deal."

And so the ride of Stan's life began. With no more passengers to drop off, and therefore no more specific places to go, Ernie did as he pleased. In the next half hour, Ernie's driving became ten times worse than it was before. One time Stan could even swear he saw the man driving with his eyes closed. The teenager wasn't sure if driving like a complete maniac, complete with random stops, 360's, and even occasional wheelies (Stan was positive that wasn't possible before this), counted as cheating or not. He didn't want to say anything, though, in fear of Ernie taking his eyes off the road. Again.

But after a half hour, Stan's stomach was perfectly fine. He was unbalanced, bruised, and dizzy, but not at all feeling sick. He always had a strong stomach. Even the random jolts, jumps, and bumps of the Knight Bus couldn't faze him. In fact, after that half hour, Stan was beginning to like the Knight Bus. It had a sort of thrill that always seemed to be draped in the air, suspended there. Stan liked it.

When the half hour was up, Ernie once again slammed on the breaks. Stan stumbled, but didn't fall this time. The driver heaved himself out of his seat, coughing, and limped down the aisle to where Stan was sitting. When he saw the boy in one piece, he stopped, looking baffled. He scanned the floor for any signs of vomit, but the floor remained mess-free. Then he looked at Stan, who was smirking.

"Quite the stomach you got there, eh?"

"Toldya I could last the 'our an' a 'alf. Di'n't I tell yah?" Stan allowed himself to get cocky, flashing a grin full of crooked teeth.

Ernie heaved a sigh, adjusting his huge glasses and leaning against the wall of the bus. "Ok. Tell me where you wanna go and I'll take you there now. Just make it fast. Getting tired."

"Ah, but that's jus' the fing," Stan started, now too over-confident for his own good. "See, I don' really feel like leavin' yet. I fink this fing's really growin' on me, see? Don' really wan' to leave!"

Surprisingly enough, the corners of Ernie's lips twitched. "What, you think you can just stay here?"

"Well, I'int goin' back home. Dad's mad 'cos I'int goin' back to 'Ogwarts. Don' got no other relatives. Reckon this's my best bet!"

"Not going to happen," Ernie replied, but his voice wasn't as tough. It sounded more playful than angry.

Something was changing. Stan recognized the lightness in the man's voice immediately. Years of having to deduce whether his dad was in a good mood or not left Stan with good "mood-sensing skills". Ernie was lightening up. Stan might still have a chance.

He took a risk. "Would it 'elp if I told yah that I haven't go' eleven sickles? Not a knut on me!"

That probably wasn't Stan's smartest idea ever, but Ernie would have to find out eventually.

Ernie's mouth fell open. Stan chuckled nervously.

Now Ernie was pacing, limping up and down the aisle left of Stan, looking too frustrated to form words. Occasionally he would turn to Stan, open his mouth as if to say something, then close it and go back to pacing, grumbling to himself as he did so. Stan just watched with curious blue eyes, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

After about five more minutes of pacing, mumbling, swearing under his breath, and making violent hand motions, Ernie finally stopped. Stan watched as his face turned from angry, to thoughtful, to doubtful, back to thoughtful, then to devious. Then it calmed down so it didn't show anything at all.

Before Stan could ask what just went through that sick head of his, Ernie popped the question that changed Stan's life forever.

"How about working those eleven sickles off?"

Slightly taken aback, all Stan could say was, "Wot?"

"Not very bright, are you, boy? Work. For. Me." He coughed. "Work. The. Sickles. Off. Got that?"

"Wot would I do?"

"Well, I could use a conductor. Someone to take care of the guests, carry the trunks, collect the money. I'm getting too old to do all that."

Stan was silent for a few seconds. Then it sunk in. Working for Ernie. Conducting the Knight Bus.

"I…uh…"

"Come on, whaddya say, er…" Ernie held out his right hand, but stopped short when he realized something. He didn't know the boy's name.

Stan caught on. He smiled, and grabbed Ernie's hand in his own firm grip, giving it a shake. "Stan. Stan Shunpike."

"Well then, Stan, welcome aboard." Ernie gave a half-smile, then limped back to the driver's seat. "I'll lend you some money for the Leaky Cauldron, which you'll also have to pay off, mind you. I expect you to be outside, in front of the building, at 5am sharp. Everyday but Sunday. That'll be 8am. Am I clear?"

"Yessir!"

"Then let's get going."

Ernie sat down in his cushioned armchair up front. At the exact same time, Stan dove into the large chair next to him, beaming as he did so, and making himself as comfy as he wished. Before Ernie could protest, let alone shoot him a glare, Stan exclaimed, "Take 'er away, Ern!" pointing into the distance and flashing another toothy grin.

Ernie let his own small grin spread across his owl-like face. "Don't call me that."

And with that, the two were off.

* * *

Four years had passed since that night. Nothing much had changed. Ernie still drove the bus. He was quieter than he had been when Stan had met him. Stan wasn't sure if it was because he was growing older, or because Stan did most of the talking for him. Stan was still the conductor. He was getting better at his job everyday, and had now almost memorized the 'introduction' he was required to say to all passengers. The only thing he had to work on was getting rid of his cockney accent during the introduction, which Ernie had to remind him to do every day.

Tonight was no different than the rest. The eighteen-year-old conductor had just directed the last passenger off of the bus, and was now playing with his fancy purple conductor's hat, bored and tired. Ernie roared the engine back to life and the bus was once again speeding down a street, then over bridges and through the countryside. Stan, now completely able to move around the bus while it was in motion, went to stand behind Ernie, letting his mind drift. It drifted to something he remembered Ernie saying four years ago. Stan smirked.

"Oi, Ern, fink I worked off them eleven sickles yet?" Stan asked, leaning over Ernie's shoulder and smirking at him in the rearview mirror.

Just like all those years ago, Ernie returned the smirk with one of his own. "Not for the life of yah."

**A/N: The End! I hope everyone at least somewhat enjoyed it. Please feel free to review, favorite, etc. Especially review. Reviews are what make the world go 'round! Well, my world, at least.**

**Oh, and I apologize for the OOC from Ernie. I know he doesn't talk much in the books, but that wouldn't really work for this story. **

**Thanks for reading!**

** ~blue-eyed-cow**


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